


Chucklevoodoo

by sumomomochi



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme prompt fill : A fairly literal interpretation of chucklevoodoo; includes one ancient ritual, two recent deaths, a fainting spell, and a number of zombies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chucklevoodoo

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Meme link : http://homesmut.livejournal.com/11448.html?thread=19022520#t19022520

**=== > IT IS TIME**

 _time for what?_ you ask.

 _TIME FOR THE WORLD TO BURN AND THE DEAD TO RISE_ you answer.

 _oh_ , you reply.

You tune your ears back towards your BEST MOTHERFUCKING FRIEND as he paces the block in front of you, arms making WILD GESTURES as he rants, his voice TINGED WITH MIRACULOUS MOTHERFUCKING PANIC.

There is a dead troll sprawled out on the floor in front of you, her DISGUSTING MAROON BLOOD painting a circle as it seeps out. Something had clawed through her insides.

 _SHE CAME BACK TO WARN US._

Your best bro has dissolved into PATHETIC SOBBINGS, repeating the same curse over and over as he clutches the sides of his head, squatting, curling up in a ball. You turn your focus inwards once more, listening patiently to the directions your mind supplies. You know exactly what to do in this situation.

You step over the dead troll, blood seeping into your shoes, soaking up the length of your pants. You stop next to your moirail, stooping down to pap him gently.

"No worries, my main motherfucker," you tell him, your tone lilting and calm. He slaps your hand away and shoves you back. You stumble, fall, land splayed out and HOW DARE HE TOUCH US blood squishes between your fingers.

"We're fucked!" he screams at you, his red, rage filled face cartilage nub to cartilage nub with yours, "We're so fucked! There's five of us left and we're pitted up against the woofbeast king of space fuckery! It's not even from _our_ fucking session and we have to deal with it with gog damned fucking _nothing_ left! Get that through your rusted fucking think pan, you useless, bulgesucking sack of shit!"

You slap him. Your claws rip through the flesh on his cheek JUST LIKE THE MOTHERFUCKER DESERVES, NO ONE TALKS TO US LIKE THAT and you almost feel guilty hurting him like that, but he flops back, cradling his torn cheek as HIS FILTHY MUTANT BLOOD drips between his fingers, and he's _quiet_.

"I motherfucking got this," you assure him. Your words start off loud, harsh, but you drop back down into a softer tone without a thought, "I've got the motherfucking chucklevoodoo all up in my think pan right now. I'mma summon us up some motherfucking miracles."

He just stares at you, stunned, so you stand and meander away.

 **=== > GO TO THE ALCHEMIZER**

Motherfucking right on. You alchemize what you need, punching cards and feeding grist through the machines without hardly a thought. You don't know what a single thing is, what any of this motherfucking miracle gear is for, but THE VOICE is guiding your hands. THE VOICE knows what to do and, by extension, so do you.

You captchalog everything, your silladex weighed down surprisingly heavy. You carry it all to the roof before ejecting it all into a pile for easy access.

 **=== > DO AS THE VOICE SAYS**

You do so. The voice says DANCE and your limbs work as they're supposed to, following a rhythm imprinted deep into your very genetics. The voice says CHANT and the sounds bubble up from your windchute.

The voice says DIE AND BE REBORN and you fall to the ground.

 **=== > BE THE VOICE**

Eyes snap open. They are not yours but yet, they are. You sit up. The knees you see are not yours but yet, they are. The clothes you wear are eerily similar but not quite the same. The feet you stand on are not your own, have not been yours for sweeps, have never been yours.

You stand in the body built upon your blood and soul.

You proceed through the ritual, grubmeal pouring from one fist as you walk the pattern engraved into your psyche. Lines cross as you work, but never smudge. Everything is precise, perfected across every lifetime you've ever had to prepare for this moment. You know this now.

The last of the INSUFFERABLE FILTH your ancestor helped spawn stumbles across you. He stands just on the edge of the veve, blue wrapping around skin that hides THE COLOUR OF UPRISING. A club materializes in your empty fist, held there briefly before it goes sailing at his FRAGILE, BLASPHEMOUS FACE. The crunch of bone echos in empty spaces, the limp thud of his body landing makes the floor tremble. You connect the last pieces of the pattern. That DISGUSTING SHADE soaks into the grubmeal.

You have your sacrifice.

Your work is done.

 **=== > BE THE SACRIFICE**

You are now the crumpled body of JOHN EGBERT. You have, luckily, reached GOD TIER and thus, aren't permanently dead. It's quite a good thing, as otherwise this wouldn't be happening.

Your body works on knitting itself together. Your squashed brain re-inflates, pushing splinters of bone back into place. Your skull reshapes itself, your skin knits back together. Your heart beats once, twice, before you suck in a gasping breath and your eyes fly open. You reach up to wipe away the blood coating your forehead then feel around for your glasses. You find them not too far away, but the sting in your palm as you put your hand down on them tells you they're shattered and useless.

Damn. That sucks.

"What the glub is goin' on?" a voice asks suddenly. It's gravelly and disgruntled and wavers a little. You don't recognize it.

"Shh! It's time. Isn't this exciting!?" another voice says. This one is bubbly and upbeat. You almost recognize it, but not from first hand experience.

"Purrfect timing," says a third, drawing out the first sylable with glee.

"That's, uh, wh-what Gamzee's always been, uh, good at," stutters yet another, "Surprising, uh, surprising everybody."

There's a snort of laughter somewhere to your left, from the general direction the third voice came from, but you can tell that it's not the same person. No one says anything for a long moment, during which you can hear someone moving around. There's a wheezy honk and everything comes flying back to you.

The clown guy. You don't remember his name. You've never actually interacted with him any, but he's the one that went all crazy and started killing everybody. You remember how Karkat was freaking out, you remember how your co-palhoncho tensed every time the other troll was mentioned. You remember a green stained club flying at your face.

You summon the wind, wrapping yourself tight in a cocoon of protective air and blast off.

 **=== > RETURN TO THE CHUCKLEVOODOO HOST**

You drag yourself to your feet. Your think pan feels squeaky clean, as though all the supor and rust that has collected on it over the sweeps has been scrubbed off. You feel fuzzy and raw and a million miles away even though you can _feel_ that there's not a single drop of your motherfucking miraculous pie in you. You force your eyes to uncross and turn to face the miracles you summoned.

There's a whole line of them, the ones you killed, the ones you didn't, the ones you wished hadn't died, side by side like a train of motherfucking miracles. There's a whole cluster of PALE HAIRED FILTH, all dressed different, all dead different, but all the same. There's a similar spattering of LEFTOVER MAROON TRASH still coating your fingers, including the one from earlier, the one who warned you.

There's two of most every body else, all your FRIVOLOUS dreams selves come back to motherfucking mingle. Your own comes up to you and you clasp hands, bunping greasy heads together like nobody's business.

The blue SACRIFICE alien comes swooping back, your best motherfucking friend clutching him as they fly down. Karkat looks even worse than he did earlier, like he's going to be sick. Before his feet are even fully on the ground, he's bellowing at you.

 **=== > BE THE FEARLESS LEADER**

"What in the name of sweet fucking Jegus did you do?" you scream at Gamzee, staring at him wide eyed. He gives you a lazy smile, but his eyes are sharp.

"I tol'ju, motherfucker," he drawls, loping over. One fist bunps against the bone cage sealing his blood pumping organ as he adds, "I motherfucking got this."

You back up, stumbling away from him, and bump into John. You reach back and clutch at his hand, because, honestly, you're FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. Rainbow blood is everywhere, shades crawling all up the hemospectrum and a large smear of your human-mutant red.

Eridan is standing with is arms crossed over his torso, his snapped wand clutched in one hand. His legs are on backwards and blood and organs squish out every time he shifts. One of the Aradias, the one who warned you of Bec Noir's imminent arrival smiles at your brightly, cradling an armful of ropey, rust coloured digestive organs. You can see clean through both Feferi and Tavros as, somehow, they manage to stay upright despite missing large chunks of their central supportive bone column. Nepeta's think pan is leaking out through the back of her cranial shell, one of her arms twisted in a way it most definitely shouldn't, Equius dripping pale blue from ruined eyes while the broken bow still dangles from his neck. John's ectotwin is missing half her face, her dream self charred, and the grimdark blond leaks tendrils of evil.

And then there's the legion of that stupid cool kid, spilling cherry red everywhere. One has a slit throat. Another is burned nearly beyond recognition. A third cradles his head under one arm, shades cracked. The list of them goes on and on and on.

Suddenly, you're rather glad that John can't see what you do.

You stare at the corpses surrounding you.

They stare back, their eyes blank white.

"I all up and got my motherfucking zombie on."

And you faint.


End file.
